Grit
by FloridaMagpie
Summary: One-shot. An NCR ranger perseveres against all odds in a desperate mission to stop a legion assassination squad. A bit of a departure from my usual content. Be warned: definite language and violence issues.


I never see it coming. One minute I'm crossing a ridgeline, crouched low among the scrubby pines and the sparse patches of tallgrass and the next there's a bright white moment of pain and I'm rolling downslope, grinding through talus and shale, clouds of blue-white dust everywhere. The world spins a couple more times, and I come to rest, face up, at the bottom of the ravine. God it hurts. I lift my arm. It takes a couple of tries, but I finally get my hand up, touch the burning spot of pain on the left side of my chest. I struggle some more, and manage at last to get my hand up in front of my eyes. The sun is coming up, and it streams down between my fingers, dazzling me. I think I see blood on my fingers, but it's hard to be sure, 'cause the light's getting dimmer for some reason.  
><em>I can't die, <em>I tell the sun. _I've got to get to Camp Golf or she's dead._ The sun isn't listening, My hand isn't listening either - it drops down out of sight.  
>Dimmer.<br>_I've got a job to do,_ I think. _Not yet._  
>Dimmer.<br>_Not yet, damn you._  
>Dimmer.<br>_Not yet! Not-_  
>Black.<p>

_I'm standing in Major Polatli's Tent. The major looks grim, haggard. Things are bad here, have been for a while. The legion is pushing closer each day, and we're short on everything. I haven't slept in a while. Don't have time now. The Major is talking._  
><em>"Don't know why they'd move a force like that out of Nelson with things as hot as they are here. I have to know what they're doing, and why. Whoever is in charge over there is very good, and good commanders don't just pull a centurion, a vexillarius, and a couple of prime legionaries off the line, arm them with the best gear they've got, and send them off on a lark with things still up in the air."<em>  
><em>"Maybe they figure they've already won, sir"<em>  
><em>"Then they figure wrong." He thinks for a second. "No, they're not stupid. We're weak, but things aren't critical yet, and as good as their scouts are our friend over there probably knows that."<em>  
><em>He stares off into space for a minute, then nods decisively. <em>  
><em>"Will, I need to know what they're up to. Your orders are to track that group, identify their intentions, and let me know by radio. Then we'll play it by ear. Stay quiet, stay smart. I need intel on this one, not a shootout. Do not engage unless it's absolutely necessary. It'll be four against one and the four are some of Caesar's best. I'm short on everything here, especially rangers. I cannot spare you, son. Do you understand, Ranger? <em>  
><em>I bark out a "Yes, sir," throw a salute, and I'm out of the tent to get my gear and weapons.<em>

The sun is bright in my eyes, but I feel colder and stiffer than I ever have in my life. I've got to get up. I've got to find that assassination team, take them out.  
>My arms won't move at all. I curse them, focus all of my will on moving just one finger. <em>Fuck you,<em> I think, _I've got a job to do, and you're going to by-God obey my fucking orders, you stupid fucking digit. Now move._ I feel it twitch. _Good_, I think, _we've established the ground rules. Now it's just a matter of hammering out the details_. They make us tough, the cadre. They weed us out and boil us down, trimming off nonessentials like hope and fear and self-pity until all that's left is a core of steel, cold and hard like a Ranger Star. It takes me twenty minutes to get on my feet, and I curse every second of lost time. Looking down, I can see that the hole in my chest has stopped bleeding. That's good, I think, if a bit surprising. I grab my blowout kit from its dedicated pocket on my patrol gear, pull the body armor off of my chest, and slap the field dressing on the wound. I try to feel on my back for an exit wound, but I can't reach high enough to be sure it isn't there. Probably doesn't matter. That bullet must have been damn near spent to have hit me right over the heart and not killed me. Armor probably took most of it. I don't have any more time to waste thinking about it. I get my gear back on and lumber into motion. I can't find my hat, my badge, my ammo, my radio, or my trail carbine, but I get lucky and catch a glint from my old .357 shining out from under a flat rock. I dig it out and break open the cylinder. The brass circles of six rounds of JFN wink at me in the sun. I keep checking around, and find the remains of a campfire, a few red fibers hanging from a branch. They must have come to check me, to loot my body. I don't know how they missed that I was still alive. I've still got my knife clipped to my right thigh. Guess that wasn't worth taking. I've got to assume they have my carbine and all my ammo. Doesn't matter. I have to get up, get moving. I've got a job to do.  
>My limbs aren't working right - it's like I've borrowed somebody else's body, and I need to get their approval for each step. This won't fucking do. I've got to move faster. I push harder, and harder, careless of the cost, and my feet finally start to respond. I'm not going up that talus slope again to the top of the ridge. If what got me was a sniper, he might still be watching it. I'm going to circle around through the ravine and try to pick up the trail downhill. I'm running now, slow and clumsy, slipping and sliding through rock and shale and gravel. Twenty minutes and I cross a small stream. I walk down it a ways, checking both sides of the bank. Finally I spot what I'm looking for, a hobnailed print in the mud. Careless of them. I pick up the trail. Looks to be a couple of hours old. I'm halfway up to the next ridge when my feet slip out from under me and I fall backwards and the lights go out.<p>

_I'm lying flat on my belly watching the four legionaries moving out. I've been on their trail for three days. Three days of hard, careful stalking, always careful to stay just a little out of sight. They stopped for resupply at a small raiding camp late last night. Looks like they caught a few hours - I dozed off a few times in my makeshift hide last night, but I couldn't afford the good long sleep I really need now. I might have missed them leaving._  
><em>I give them twenty minutes, and then I follow them down into the camp. They're cleaning up after breakfast, so they're not watching as close as they should. I take out the bored, sleepy legionary on sentry. Knife goes home at an upward angle just to the right of his spine, my hand clamped over his mouth. I can feel it squish through his kidney and pop free into the bottom lobe of his right lung. His body is rigid with pain, every muscle locked in a rictus of agony while his lungs fill up with blood, which is the idea. Cutting a sentry's throat is a bad idea, no matter what the legion thinks. Getting an enemy from behind, through the kidney, causes a man so much pain he can't scream, can't breathe. If you have the time, you can put him out of his misery afterwards with a quick stab up under the chin, or through the eye, but he's Legion, and I can't be bothered right now. There are two more. I wait 'till the decurion is walking away with his arms full of dishes, and then I take the other legionary from behind a rush. This time I'm sloppy, and he gets off a strangled gasp as the knife sinks in. So much for stealth. I drop him and keep moving, arms swinging, pounding hard across the space between me and the officer. The decurion has just enough time to turn before I reverse my grip on the run and get him across the side of his head with the pommel, blackened blade slick with blood cutting a long swinging arc through the air. He's tough, and it takes a couple of hits before he goes down. I pull ten yards of precious pre-war paracord from my utility kit, and set to work trussing him up. Once he wakes up, I go to work asking questions. He's a brave man. It gets bloody, and I'm not proud of what I do to him, but there are lives at stake here, and the survival of the NCR, so I do what I have to. He answers all my questions, eventually. I'm sure he lied about some of it, but I think I've got the basics. They're headed for Camp Golf, and they're going to kill the Courier. I call it in. Polatli curses for about ten seconds straight before he gives me new orders in the usual clinical jargon you use to ask a man to do the unthinkable. Intercept. Neutralize. Maximum effort. I know what he means - that this is going to have to get even bloodier, and he's just told me to die trying to kill these bastards if I have to. All things considered, I have to say I agree with him. I've never met her, but every trooper out here knows what she's done for the NCR, and I agree that she's too important to lose. <em>

I come to on my back again, with that goddamned sun in my eyes. No idea how long I was out, but I can't afford this. It's easier getting up this time. I still feel disconnected from my arms and legs, but they're doing a better job of listening. I check my wound, and there's barely a drop of blood on the dressing. I can still see the trail in front of me, so I push myself back into a lumbering run that's a sad mockery of the mile-eating dog trot they train into you the first month at The School. After a while, my body starts to loosen up again, and I push myself a little harder. I don't know where this endurance is coming from. Every ranger knows how to push past their limits, for a while, but eventually the body demands its due and you collapse. I don't feel any of the creeping fatigue I'd expect at this point, the leaden lethargy or brittle manic energy that tells you that you've pushed too far, that the bill is coming soon. I'm moving as fast as I ever have in training, maybe faster. With five days on short sleep and a bullet lodged somewhere in my chest, I shouldn't be able to do this. Doesn't matter. I've still got a job to do.  
>An hour later, I come over a ridge, and see Camp Golf laid out before me. A hundred meters downslope there's flash of crimson and white on a shallow plateau. The legion team is lying prone among the scrub and dirt, looking down onto the lonely stretch of the 564 leading into and out of the camp. They've picked their ground well; it's a great spot for an ambush - elevated position, narrow road below, good trails off to either side to escape or get down to the road in a hurry. They're not looking my direction. Why would they? They know there's no one on their backtrail. After all, they shot me and looted my corpse this morning. The fates have conspired to give me a chance, and I intend to make the most of it. All I've got is my .357 and my combat knife, but if I can just get close without them seeing me, that should be enough. And after all, I don't have to survive, just win. The two troopers need to be my primary targets; they've both got rifles, which would make them among the minority of legion troops trained in marksmanship. Even if I don't get them all, taking those two out will even the odds for the Courier, if that's really who they intend to ambush. The decurion I questioned day before yesterday seemed pretty sure, or at least he didn't change his story even after I started cutting parts off of him, which will have to do. I can see that the centurion has my trail carbine slung down his back - valuable loot, but I'm betting he doesn't really know how to use it. Close combat is where the glory comes from in Caesar's Legion, and you need a lot of glory to be made a centurion. I'm probably not going to win a close-up fight with him, especially not in this condition. In the shape I'm in, I need to get close to be effective with the .357, but not so close that they can get to me with those machetes before I pop them. There's a boulder about ten yards behind them, and enough cover that I think I can probably get there without being spotted. It's going to be a hell of a stalk, though.<br>I go down head first, slow, careful dragging movements. Halfway down, I dislodge a few pebbles and have to freeze facedown in the dirt for a minute or two in case they heard. After a while, I carry on. The wind is sighing through the scrub and grass around me, and I try to move only when it's blowing. I don't know what their timeline is, but I hope to God the courier isn't out there now, wandering into the kill zone. Thirty, forty minutes later, I'm hunkered down behind the boulder. I ease the retention strap off of the .357, pull it slowly free with just the faintest whisper of steel on leather. I don't break it open to check the rounds again. It's a stupid nervous habit, and there's no quiet way to do it. I transfer the gun to my left hand long enough to pull the knife from my hip. I put the blade between my teeth and bite down, just enough to hold it in place. I'm going to need both hands for the magnum, but unless I'm very, very lucky I'm going to need to get to that hunk of steel before this is over.  
>I risk a peek, and they're all more or less where they were before. I've been in earshot for an hour, and I haven't heard them say a word yet, so I know they're disciplined. I'd expect Caesar to send his best for something like this. I remember the words of my handgun instructors: slow is smooth, smooth is fast. I take just a second to think of Sarah, and hope that I get the chance to see her again, to touch her golden hair, see her smile. The sun is warm on my back as I slowly stand up and ease out from behind the rock. I aim for the back of the first rifleman's head. The blade of the front sight catches the sun as I exhale, and some part of me realizes it's the first breath I can remember taking in a while.<br>_Crack._ I don't bother to watch the effect, I'm tracking to the second man. His head is turned in profile to me, staring uncomprehending at the red ruin of his companion's head. The surprise won't last. I methodically squeeze the trigger twice, and he flops out, rifle bouncing away over the ledge. The vexillarius is already getting to his feet and turning. I put the front sight over his chest and squeeze, ride the recoil up and squeeze again. I actually see the bullet go home under his left eye. His head snaps back, he takes a spastic step back, and goes over the edge. The centurion is on his feet, already moving toward me. I get a shot off before he's on me with the machete. I get my left arm up, palm in to protect the tendons like we were taught. He carves a good sized fillet off of my left forearm, but the bone holds. It doesn't hurt, and I don't see any blood. That seems to bother him a little, and I take the opportunity to get the knife out of my teeth and look for a place to stick it. He gets a look at me as I'm moving in, and his face goes grey. Guess he's not expecting me here. The shock makes him freeze for just a second, and that's all I need. I carve the machete out of his right hand with a descending overhand cut along the tendons inside his wrist, and drag the edge across his jugular on the backstroke. He's tough, I'll give him that. He grabs me with his left hand and fumbles behind his back with what's left of his right. I figure he's got a second machete back there, but I know he's not going to get it out in time. I reverse my grip on the blade, push my elbow free, and drive the point home into his neck once, twice, three times. He's still got a death grip on my arm, but his legs are going, and he drops to his knees. His mouth works a couple of times, and then he's gone. His hand is the last to know it - I feel the fingers still clutching at the sleeve of my patrol armor as he falls backward in a clatter of steel plates.  
>I'm suddenly conscious of how tired I am, and I stagger back over to the boulder. I need to sit down, rest for a minute. I look at my forearm, and it's still not bleeding. I know there's something wrong with that, but I can't focus on it right now. My knees give way, and I slide down with my back against the sun beats down on me, and I finally feel warm for the first time since I woke up this morning with a hole in my chest. I'm not sure what happened to my .357, but I've got the knife clenched tight in my right hand. I think about Sarah again, her bright hair and her dark eyes, and then the sun is bright, bright, and I close my eyes against the glare. <em>I did my job<em>, I think. I figure I can afford to rest for a bit. _I did my job._

It's two hours later when the fallen vexillarius finally draws the attention of a patrol. He's sprawled out at the bottom of the slope, and the dog head cowl is the only thing holding his head together. After that, it's just a matter of looking up the cliff to see the glint of metal, and then hiking up to find the scene. This close to Camp Golf, dead legion gets a lot of attention, and inside of an hour the place is boiling with khaki fatigues and flat helmets. A few minutes later, three figures come puffing up the slope as the sun sinks down in the west. The young lieutenant leads them to the site, then stands at a respectful distance. The old man and the young woman take it in. He's old, grizzled, with white hair and a full beard. There are deep sun wrinkles around his eyes. She's young, tall, and rangy, with sun-bleached hair and a deep tan. After a minute, a woman wearing a red cross on the sleeve of her uniform stands up from the body of the Ranger and walks over to join them.  
>"Chief Hanlon, sir, I'm Corporal Timofevich. I was the medic on call when the report came in."<br>The old man nods affably. "Pleasure to meet you, Timofevich. What can you tell me?"  
>"It's the damnedest thing, sir. I can't make head or tail of it." She breaks off, stares off into space for a minute. The old man speaks softly, in a whiskey-rough voice.<br>"How about you walk me through it, Corporal, and I'll see if I can help."  
>She draws a deep breath and nods, then points out at the bodies of the two legion marksmen out by the lip of the plateau.<br>"Those two were hit from behind while they were prone. Can't tell for sure, but the wounds look like they could be from something small with a lot of power, like a .357. That could be from that one right over there." She points to a revolver, shining on the ground among the bodies.  
>"There are six empty shells in the cylinder. I suppose they could also have come from the cowboy-style .357 repeaters the two legionaries were carrying, but those look like they fell where they were dropped, and it doesn't look like they shot each other."<br>The Chief's brow creases, but he doesn't speak as the medic goes on.  
>"So that's three shots, head shots on both, and a second shot in the spine of the one on the left. If I had to guess, the one on the right got it in the back of the head, and the one on the left caught it in the temple and back while he was turning to look at the first guy. The dog-head down the hill got two more, chest and head, both from the front, so I guess he got up and turned around before they got him. That's five."<br>She pauses for breath. At the Chief's nod, she goes on.  
>"The centurion has a hole in that nice shiny armor of his and a bloody crease along his ribs. I haven't spent much time looking for it, but that could be number six. That's not what killed him, though." The three survey the nearly decapitated corpse. "Obviously," she adds lamely.<br>They turn to look at the Ranger. Somebody has draped an NCR flag over the body, and a few sprigs of cut sagebrush lie bundled together at his feet.. She walks over and pulls it back. In death, the Ranger's face is milk pale under the chocolate complexion of his skin, his eyes are closed, and his full lips are arranged in a serene half-smile. The flies that buzz around the others seem to have no interest in this corpse. Below the neck, he's a mess. Dried blood is caked over the chestplate of his armor, around a neat little hole in the left side of his chest. A long slice has removed most of the outside of his left forearm, and the ulna and radius are a shocking white against the red-grey meat of the filleted muscle. The knuckles of his right hand are wrapped loosely around the blood-soaked grip of a Ranger-issue fighting knife, and his arm is red to the elbow.  
>After a minute, the Chief speaks. "That's Jackson, alright. Polatli reported three days ago that he assigned him to trail these guys. After Jackson figured out what they were up to, the Major ordered him intercept them at all costs. I guess he took it seriously."<br>"Rangers tend to do that," Timofevich adds drily. Hanlon nods, gravely.  
>"Corporal, I don't mean to tell you your job, but it seems pretty obvious to me what happened here. Ranger Jackson caught up with them while they were laying an ambush for our friend here, and took the chance to neutralize them while he had the element of surprise. He shot those two there, then the dog-man, and then killed the centurion hand to hand after his gun ran dry. Somewhere in there, or maybe afterwards, he caught a bullet to the chest. After all that work, he was a bit tired, so he sat down to rest."<br>The suntanned woman speaks up for the first time. "He must have been one hell of a Ranger," she says.  
>The Chief nods, and his sad eyes crinkle up, just a bit. "Ayup," he says. "Those are exactly the words Polatli used to describe him. He'll be missed."<br>The medic clears her throat. "Excuse me," she says. "But that can't be what happened."  
>The chief eyes her, quizzically. "You think one Ranger couldn't kill four legion bastards?" he asks.<br>The medic holds her hands up in a placating gesture.  
>"I don't doubt that, Chief, but this one can't have done it." She points to the three legionaries.<br>"These men died three, four hours ago. So did the one down the hill, best I can tell." She points at the fallen Ranger.  
>"He's been dead since sometime early this morning. I'd guess not long after he checked in for the last time. It's easy enough to see what killed him. She walks over, and leans the body forward. High up on the back is a gaping four-inch exit wound. She points to hole in the front of his armor.<br>"Bullet went in there, came out the back. Passed right through his heart. He'd have been dead in twenty seconds."  
>She reaches down, lifts the mangled arm.<br>"See how there's no bleeding? He was dead when this happened. Now, I know you rangers are tough, but I don't think even you can come back from the dead. I don't know why, but the only thing I can think of is that they must have killed him somewhere else and brought him here for some reason."  
>The Chief and the quiet woman stand looking at the body for a while, not saying anything. Eventually, the medic excuses herself and moves off to help with the cleanup. After a minute, she comes back over with something in her hand. She passes it over to Hanlon, who looks down at it.<br>"The guys found this on one of the legionaries. His hat and radio were in there too, along with a bunch of ammo with NCR armory stamps. Guess they took them off of him before they moved the body." She throws a salute before walking away again. After a moment, the old Ranger hands it over to the tall woman. She looks down at the grimy steel ranger star in her hand.  
>"I think you should keep this." He says. "You're going to have some hard choices to make in the next few weeks, and I think maybe you're the kind of person who would think it matters that a good man died to keep you safe." He turns, looks west into the setting sun.<br>"Don't they usually want to send the star back to the family with the body?" she asks.  
>"Don't worry about it," he says, without turning around. "If you recall, it's been suggested that maybe I should think about retiring. I might just make my last duty to see William Jackson back to his wife in Shady Sands." He pulls the battered gold star off of his vest, weighs it in his hand for a moment.<br>"I'll make sure she gets a star, and the true story."  
>As he starts to walk away, she asks.<br>"Do you think they killed him and moved him here?"  
>He stops, and this time he does turn around.<br>"I think that if someone is tough enough, brave enough, dedicated enough, a little thing like death doesn't have a chance in hell of stopping them from doing their duty. I think Ranger Jackson believed that."  
>He looks her in the eye.<br>"And I think you do too," he says.  
>A squad of NCR troopers come and load the ranger's body onto a stretcher. Reverently, they raise him to their shoulders and carry him off, down the hill and into the deepening twilight, leaving the woman alone by the boulder where he lay. She stands, turning the the battered steel object over and over in her hand, until long after the shadows lengthen into night, and the stars come out overhead, and the plateau, and the blood, and even the Courier herself are lost to sight.<p> 


End file.
